


are we living for the feeling?

by michelllejones



Series: fear of the water [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, and guess what?! they're best friends!, baby idiots, in case y'all forgot, slightly aged up characters, some angst in the beginning, they're fourteen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 04:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michelllejones/pseuds/michelllejones
Summary: “You’re such an idiot,” Eddie tells Richie with a frown.He snorts at that. “Says you. Your knees are all bloody. You fall off your bike or something?” He asks, and for a split second Eddie thinks he can hear genuine concern in his voice. He’s probably just imagining it, though, since Richie’s only ever concerned about two things: his dick, and the size of it.“So what if I did?” Eddie bites back, feeling almost defensive. Richie should be the last person teasing him about falling off of a bike. Especially since Eddie watched him trip over his own foot less than a week ago!or, Eddie takes a tumble and goes to Richie for help.





	are we living for the feeling?

**Author's Note:**

> hi all!! i miss and lov u!! 
> 
> have this wip that i wrote the first half of over a year ago and decided to finish finally. i hope it is not garbage. my brain doesn't work so i can't tell. and for anyone who has read blackbird, this is kind of a prologue. but can also be a stand-alone. yeah!
> 
> enjoy
> 
> <3

Eddie Kaspbrak is fourteen years old when he topples off of his bike and lands harsh on the pavement beneath him, skins the palms of his hands and scrapes his knees. There’s a moment after where he is motionless, just stares at the black tar beneath him with a blank expression on his face. He’s not entirely sure what’s just happened—he remembers biking down the hill, careful not to go too fast, the echo of his mother’s words hanging over him like a dark cloud: _“You should always walk your bike down steep hills, Eddie,”_ she would always say, _“you don’t want to fly over the handlebars and break a bone!”_

Almost fearfully, he pulls his hands from the ground to inspect them. Nearly gags at the sight. There’re bits of gravel embedded into his skin and though his palms are not bleeding, they are rubbed almost completely raw. Eddie bites down on the inside of his lip, and closes his eyes.

Weirdly enough, it’s as if just looking them has triggered the pain receptors in his palms, because suddenly all Eddie can feel is the excruciating stinging as it covers every inch of them. Tears prick in his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. He will not cry. Not over this.

 _It doesn’t even hurt that bad_ he reprimands himself as he stands from his position on the ground _don’t be a baby._

He blinks once, then promptly remembers that he scraped his knees, too, in an attempt to break his fall. They are probably just as bad—if not worse—but he’s afraid to look at them, afraid to see the blood dripping down his legs and the pebbles and dirt engraved into the scrapes. 

He bites down hard onto his tongue. He is _not going to cry._

With a shuddery breath, Eddie wills himself to glance down at his knees and asses the wounds he knows are there. He can already feel the burning, tingling sensation that extends to his shins from where he landed on the road. When he finally looks at them, they aren't nearly as bad as he imagined, though they don’t look _good_ , either. His legs are black from the pavement, patches of skin are missing, and there’s blood trickling down his right shin. He sucks in a breath and tries not to focus on the pain, but then his hands start to tingle in a weird, uncomfortable way and his kneecaps begin to ache. 

He needs to clean and disinfect his wounds, but he doesn’t have the means of doing so. Not now, not as he stands at the bottom of the hill, in front of houses of people he does not know. For the first time in a very, very, long time he misses his fanny-pack. At least he could carry band-aids and antiseptic wipes everywhere he went. Though, they weren’t usually for him. More often than not, he was using those supplies for his friends. Richie, mostly. 

Standing in the street, Eddie sighs. Going home is not an option—if his mother sees him this way she won’t let him out of the house for a week. She’ll give his bike away to someone younger than him and insist on driving him everywhere. A chill runs down his spine at the thought. 

His mother means well, he knows this. Safety is her number one priority when it comes to her family (in truth, when it comes to _him_ ), she would do anything to keep them out of harms way. Even if that means that she has to lie to them for years about sicknesses that don't exist and stock them full of illegitimate fears of things like allergies and bikes and big, scary hills to do so. 

And while he knows she’s just scared, Eddie also knows that she is the reason he feels like he can’t breathe without reaching for his inhaler first. She is the reason he can’t even look at his bed before he rubs his skin raw as he attempts to wash away the dirt and bacteria that’s clung to him since the moment he stepped outside. Can’t leave the house until he’s washed his hands. Won’t touch his bike until he’s hosed it off at least once.

He blames his mother for it, because it’s her fault he is this way. The moment his father died was the moment she swore to make him as afraid of the world as she is. And he hates her for it, because it worked. 

So, he crosses walking home off of the list. 

He glances around and surveys his surroundings. The pharmacy isn’t too far from where he stands, only a few minutes if he rides his bike—which he really does not want to do. Mr. Keene will be there, though, and he will most certainly ask questions. Take one look at his hands and knees and say: _“What happened, Eddie? Hold on, let me call your mother!”_ before Eddie even has a chance to respond. 

He shakes his head. Not the pharmacy. 

He looks up again, this time with a frown. Realizing he’s not too far from Richie’s house, his brow quirks in consideration. If he walks, he can be there in under fifteen minutes. 

Richie’s parents are kind, even if they forget his name every now and then. They’ll let him use their bandaid’s and their peroxide and their cotton balls. That’s assuming they haven’t already used all of them, with how much Richie hurts himself on a daily basis.

Plus, the Tozier’s won’t ask him questions. Richie won’t ask questions. Just tease him about how he hurt himself falling for _him_ , or make some other ridiculous joke at his expense. Which is, granted, entirely obnoxious. But Eddie supposes he’d take obnoxious over prying any day. Besides, he can handle Richie, no problem. It’s adults that frighten him. 

But there’s a chance that no one will be home. It’s a Sunday afternoon, after all. And sometimes the Tozier’s attend church—though Eddie’s not sure he can remember the last time Richie had joined them. Still... Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, and contemplates his choices. Maybe he can just hide at the Barrens until the sun sets…

But that’s probably the worst thing he could do for himself at the moment. Leaving his wounds unattended leaves them vulnerable. 

A sigh leaves his lips as raises his palms, then, and studies them for a few seconds. Then, he does the same to his knees. The blood is already drying, but the pain is still there. His legs are still throbbing, hands still burning. 

Every second he wastes is another second he exposes himself to a nasty infection, he recalls with a shudder.

Richie’s house it is. 

It takes him all of ten minutes to get there, which surprises him greatly when he considers that he had to walk there, and every step he took made him hiss in discomfort. He tosses his bike into the grass and stares up at the grey paneled house in front of him. It seems much too big for just three people, he thinks. 

When he walks up the Tozier’s front porch steps, Eddie finds himself hoping that Richie’s parents are out running errands, or something of the sort. There’s a chance they’ll call his mother, and walking all the way over here will have been a complete waste. His mom would scold him the entire ride home, and sell his bike anyway. 

Apprehensively, he knocks on the door. He’s starting to second guess his decision to pick Richie’s house. He should’ve walked the extra ten minutes and went to Bill’s. At least he could trust Mrs. Denbrough to keep this a secret. She knows just how overbearing Sonia Kaspbrak can be when it comes to her only son.

Eddie waits exactly one minute and thirty-two seconds before he’s greeted by a familiar pair of thick-rimmed, magnified lenses and the bleary brown eyes of his friend. He keeps count simply so he can nag at the boy for it. 

“I almost waited two minutes out here, dipshit,” Eddie huffs, not even bothering to say hello as he steps inside the foyer. “Your parents home?”

Richie shuts the door and leans against it, a stupidly smug look on his face. “Trying to take advantage of me, are ya, Eds?” He taunts, and moves his pointer finger to jab it into the shorter boy’s side, before he stops abruptly. He eyes the scrapes on Eddie’s knees and leans down to get a closer look at them. “Well golly, gee, Spaghetti Man! You get so excited to pay me a visit you lost your footing?” 

Eddie groans. “You’re such an idiot,” he tells Richie with a frown. 

Richie snorts at that. “Says you. Your knees are all bloody. You fall off your bike or something?” He asks, and for a split second Eddie thinks he can hear genuine concern in his voice. He’s probably just imagining it, though, since Richie’s only ever concerned about two things: his dick, and the size of it. 

“So what if I did?” Eddie bites back, feeling almost defensive. Richie should be the last person teasing him about falling off of a bike. Especially since Eddie watched him trip over his own foot less than a week ago!

Richie raises an eyebrow, as if he really has to think of an answer to that. Except, he doesn’t. He squints right at Eddie and asks “did you?”

With a scowl, Eddie glares at him. “Obviously,” he huffs. “So? Are your parents home?” He presses nervously, eyes darting around the foyer. 

Confusion paints Richie’s features as he blinks back at Eddie. “Uh, no?”

“Okay. Good,” Eddie replies, relieved. Then, he pushes past Richie and bounds upstairs, headed towards the bathroom. Behind him, Richie follows his lead. 

“Um, the bedroom is _that_ way,” he calls up after him suggestively, gesturing in the direction of his room. Absent-mindedly, Eddie flips him off as he wanders down the hallway. 

Determined, Eddie steps into the bathroom and flips the light on. The scrapes on both his hands and knees feel as if they are on fire, stinging and tingling with every twist and motion. His pace quickens as he digs through the medicine cabinet, hoping to find some kind of antiseptic to clean his scratches. All he finds are a few faded bottles of sunscreen and an old toothbrush. Huffing in frustration, he drops to search through the cabinets below the sink.

“If you’re looking for tampons, they’re in my mom’s room.” Richie teases, leant up against the door frame.

Eddie close his eyes briefly, and exhales out his nose. Richie is _so_ not helping. 

_Should’ve gone to Bill’s_ , his thoughts taunt.

“Would you knock it off and help me, already?” Eddie growls. He’s approximately three whole seconds away from freaking out, if not less. And Richie’s stupid jokes are only making it worse. “I need peroxide or—or something, I don’t know,” feeling frustrated, Eddie runs a hand through his hair. “Do you have any wipes, or Band-Aids? Ice? My mom’ll kill me if she sees my knees like this, Rich, seriously. They fucking hurt, too, and—” his voice cuts off and morphs into something like a sob, pathetic and small, like he’s some kind of stupid baby. Before he knows it, there are tears in his eyes and then they’re dripping onto his cheeks and then he’s crying. In front of Richie. 

Why does he have to be such a wimp all the time? 

Embarrassed, Eddie desperately tries to keep the tears from falling, chanting _suck it up suck it up suck it up_ as he sucks in deep breaths and forces them back out repeatedly.

Richie blinks, shocked. “Woah, wait, Eds, it’s not that big of a deal, ‘kay?” He reaches out to touch him, but quickly retracts his hand, thinking better of it. “There’re some Band-Aids in—” he stops himself, apparently realizing that his rambling isn't much help. “Just. Hold on.” He orders, then disappears down the hall, leaving Eddie alone and sniffling on the bathroom floor. 

If he weren't so focused on the prickling sensation that’s engulfed his hands and knees, Eddie might be embarrassed by the fact that he’s crying over this. Something as stupid and small as some scrapes on his knees. Maybe he’d even feel dumb for crying in front of Richie over it, except he finds himself almost grateful that it’s Richie and not someone else. He wouldn't want Bill to see him this way, pitiful and weak. Miserably, Eddie wipes his cheeks with the back of his hands.

He hears Richie before he sees him, a clattering noise in the hallway followed by a flustered “Fuck me gently with a chainsaw!,” which Eddie almost laughs at, because it comes as no surprise that that would be the only line Richie retained from _The Heathers_.

When Richie finally returns to the bathroom, Eddie’s tears have dried, though the pain has not subsided in the slightest. He crouches down to Eddie’s level and lays an assortment of different boxes and bottles on the ground in front of him. Blinking down at them, Eddie feels a rush of affection course through his veins for his loudmouthed friend.

“I ain’t no doctor,” Richie speaks up, sounding the least bit sheepish, “so I just went and grabbed whatever I thought might treat ‘cha,” he douses his words in a mildly decent heavy New York accent. Decent, when the fact that Richie’s never stepped a foot out of Derry let alone in New York in his entire life is taken into consideration.

“Now scooch on ova and let Nurse Richie patch ya up, shnookums,” he orders in a pitch so high his voice cracks all the way through while he digs around in the First-Aid kit in his lap.

Eddie scrunches his nose up in distaste, giggling. “Who was that?” 

Richie pulls a bundle of gauze from the box and frowns at it, perplexed. “Betty Boop,” he answers simply, transfixed on the gauze in his hand.

“I don’t think so,” Eddie laughs softly, gently taking the gauze from Richie’s hands and placing it back in the box. “Hand me that,” he points to the grayish container on the floor that Eddie can only guess is peroxide.

Briskly, Richie swats at his finger with a stern expression. “Nope, no can do, sonny,” he declares in a booming, authoritative voice. “What kinda doctor let’s his patients take care’of’emselves?” 

And well, Eddie can’t argue with that logic. Except Richie’s no doctor, and Eddie is most certainly _not_ his patient. And yet, he can’t find it in himself to argue with the boy, so he doesn’t. Quietly, he watches with a careful and intrigued eye as Richie plucks the peroxide from the ground, fishes a cotton ball from the baggy, and douses it with the solution. 

After he’s completely drenched the cotton ball, Richie lifts his eyes to look into Eddie’s. To which Eddie does not even attempt to hide his perplexed, and almost fearful, expression, because he knows that the second that piece of cotton comes into contact with his skin, his foot is going to end up in Richie’s face. 

“Wanna know somethin’ funny?” Richie poses completely randomly, as if he isn't about to make Eddie thrash around like a fish out of water.

“Uh?” Eddie practically squeaks as result of the anxiety that has pushed his heart into his throat. He can’t be serious. What could possibly be funny at a time like this?!

Taking notice of Eddie’s most obvious distress, Richie approaches him slowly, warily, worrying his lip with his too big front teeth. His eyes are bright and round, and unblinking, and boring right into Eddie’s with a kind of heaviness to them, something akin to a question: _Do you trust me?_ they’re asking, and Eddie should want to scream _no_ , but he nods instead, discovering that he trusts Richie wholly.

Richie grins a toothless grin and shifts so that he can more easily attend to Eddie’s wounds. This movement places his face only a few inches from Eddie’s own, so close that Eddie can make out all the smudges and fingerprints on Richie’s glasses. The freckles on the bridge of his nose, the faint, J-shaped scar beneath his left eye from the time he tried to pick up the stray cat they found in an alleyway all those years ago, the bouts of peach fuzz along his top lip. Their proximity only makes it harder to breath, and Eddie only wishes he knew why. 

“Well,” Richie begins and then stops, no longer holding Eddie’s gaze as he scours the bathroom floor for the box of Band-Aids. Eddie analyzes each and every move he makes, all while dreadfully anticipating the moment the peroxide comes into contact with the scrapes on his hands and knees. Yet he feels his glare pull upward, to study Richie in careful examination, wondering with irritability just what’s so funny he’s gotta tell him right now, this very second. It holds onto him even when Richie picks a Band-Aid from the box and presents it to Eddie—as if to ask if that specific Band-Aid is okay for him—and grasps him tight around the shoulders as Richie takes his left hand into his, and finally says: “I wacked it for a full two hours this morning.” 

Repulsed, Eddie wretches and tries to yank his hand out of Richie’s but Richie just grips it tighter, howling with laughter. 

“Gross!” Eddie cries. “Are you serious, Richie?!” 

Snorting, Richie lifts Eddie’s struggling hand closer to his. “About the wacking? Oh yeah. Mom thought I was taking a nap but it was Cum City up there. I even—”

“NO!” Eddie groans out loudly in protest and disgust. “I meant! Is that _really_ something that I need to know, you sicko? Like, what is wrong with you? Ew! You’re lucky you’re left-handed, because if you ever think of touching me with the hand that you use to, _you know_ , I would never speak to you again. I mean it, Rich. Don’t even think about touching me, like, ever again. Disgusting! Do you even wash your hands after? I bet you didn’t. Ugh, you probably didn’t even shower. Or change your sheets! Oh my, God. Poor Mrs. Tozier. She doesn’t know her son is a literal cretin! I bet—,” and then, mid-rant, Eddie notices that the hand captured in Richie’s is no longer stinging, but tingling slightly, and he knows that Richie Tozier has just outsmarted him.

Face twisted into a scowl, Eddie leans back against the bathroom wall, and pouts. 

“Eat shit, Dick.”

“Did for breakfast,” Richie replies, the shit-eating grin on his face only serving as fuel to the fire in the pit of Eddie’s stomach. He’s applying the Band-Aid, now, in a manner so cautious Eddie wonders if this is really Richie he’s sitting with, or a figment of his own imagination. For all he knows, he could be laying in the middle of the street right now, knocked unconscious and dreaming this whole thing. Which is so embarrassing, for a multitude of reasons. 

He hopes for his own sake that isn't true. 

Just as he considers pinching himself to confirm or deny his suspicions, there’s a sharp wave of prickles shooting across the palm of his right hand without warning. Involuntarily, he sucks in a big breath of air. Directs a fiery look Richie’s way, but he’s too busy applying a bandage to Eddie’s scrapes to notice. If he feels Eddie’s eyes on him, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he moves to work on Eddie’s knees, and Eddie lets him.

The longer he stares at his googly-eyed friend, the quicker the fire in his gaze dissipates, and soon it’s put out completely, replaced with a newfound sense of curiosity. Like, since when does Richie know anything about dressing a wound? How did he know distracting Eddie like that would work? And why is he being so nice? And patient? 

Sure, it is, of course, possible that it could all be explained by the simple fact that they’d known each other for years. For as long as Eddie can remember, Richie has been there. Even when he didn't want him to be. And in contrast, when he did. It is also feasible that despite all the constant blabbing and mediocre joke making, Richie paid attention. That, at least, Eddie knew to be true because there were things Richie remembered that even Eddie didn’t. 

Like how he remembered weird details about all of their friends, but him, too. Richie knew the exact day Eddie got his new calculator watch. He knew what period he had gym. He knew his least favorite flavor of milkshake, what time he took his meds (when he used to, anyway), and all of his (supposed) allergies. That loud-mouth even knew what his favorite color was, and Eddie didn't even think he had a favorite color. Not until Richie pointed out how often he wore the color blue. Who knew that kind of stuff about someone else?

Although, now that Eddie has taken this moment to be randomly reflective, he reveals that there are things about Richie that he knows for absolutely no reason. He knows that when Richie was four years old, he fell down the stairs and broke his arm. He knows that Richie only has one grandma, and he hates her because he thinks she thinks he’s stupid. His favorite flavor of milkshake is chocolate and vanilla, because he’s a monster who mixes different flavors together. He wears green everything, and it’s hideous. He’s the only one of their friends who actually understands geometry, and nothing makes Eddie angrier. 

So, maybe it isn’t so weird. Eddie knows lots of things about all of the losers, not just Richie. And Richie’s his best friend. Best friends know stuff about one another. Even the stupid stuff. That’s what best friends are for. You tell them everything about yourself, even the things that don’t matter. And they tell you things, too. What’s the point of having a best friend you know nothing about?

By the time Eddie decides his curiosity is simply trivial, Richie is patting a second Band-Aid onto his left kneecap. He hasn’t said a word, which is strange, and should be unsettling, but Eddie can only appreciate it. Sometimes Richie knows when to shut up. It’s nice. 

After he’s covered his other knee in Band-Aids, Richie leans down and presses two, very loud kisses to each of them. 

Shoving his head away, Eddie moans, disgusted. 

“Knock it off, you weirdo!” 

“Come on, I’ll bike you home,” Richie says with a snicker, standing from the floor hastily. 

Eddie frowns. “But... My bike—”

Holding up a finger, Richie silences him. “You can’t ride it with your flesh wounds!” He exclaims in his British Guy Voice. 

It’s gotten better, but Eddie would rather fall off his bike a million times more than admit to that. 

“I attest, good sir,” Richie bellows, “and insist you rideth with me to your humble abode...” a delay, “—th!” 

Taking a moment to contemplate this point, Eddie concludes that his friend is right. It would hurt too bad to use the handlebars, even with the bandages. 

“Okay,” he agrees, “but you better go slow. Especially down the hill, I mean it, Rich. I’ll throw your glasses right in the road if you don’t.”

Disregarding the very serious threat, Richie grins wide and bright, looking rather pleased with himself and Eddie’s answer. 

“Ay ay, Captain,” he raises two fingers to his forehead in salute. All the while, his smile remains. And Eddie would be lying if he said it didn’t warm him up inside just looking at it. It didn’t take long before he was smiling, too.

Then, for a moment, it is just the two of them, standing in the bathroom with matching smiles and a twinkle in their eyes (that neither of them will detect, nor acknowledge). A strange, fluttering sensation takes flight within the confines of Eddie’s stomach, then. In an instant, he becomes very aware of this feeling, and mildly panics. He clasps his hands together and presses them to his stomach, as if to keep the butterflies inside caged in. Issues a silent prayer to whatever or whoever might be listening in hopes that Richie can’t hear how loud his heart is beating inside his chest.

They hold each other’s gaze for a little while longer, both of them with a thousand things to say but no way to say it. So they leave it be, whatever it is, and climb down the staircase in shared silence. And then they’re outside, and Richie is wheeling Eddie’s bike towards his backyard, and Eddie is keeping track of how many times his heart beats in a thirty-second interval. Hoping that his heart rate is elevated only because he knows the second he gets home he’ll have to explain himself to his mother. 

It has nothing— _absolutely no_ thing _at all_ —to do with the little smile Richie throws at him over his shoulder as he picks his own bike from the ground and mounts it all smooth-like. Nope, not even the stupid and utterly ridiculous, overly exaggerated wink he gives, or the way he says “your chariot awaits, sir,” in a cringe-worthy European accent can be reason enough for his heart to act this way. It’s anxiety, he decrees, that’s all. 

Yeah. Anxiety.

 _That_ makes sense. 

It takes whatever willpower Eddie has left to place his feet on each of the pegs of Richie’s bike. When they push off, his hands clutch the back of Richie’s shoulders so tight his knuckles turn white. But he doesn’t really have anything to worry about, because apparently Richie has chosen this one time to listen to one of Eddie’s demands, and he rides safely along the sidewalk and through the neighborhoods. After about five minutes, Eddie loosens his vice grip on Richie’s shirt. Lets the cool breeze kiss his face, tousle his hair. It’s liberating.

His eyes are closed, and his heart has settled back into its rightful place in his chest cavity, and it’s the most peaceful he’s felt in a long while. 

He doesn’t even notice the way the breeze picks up, or how his stomach plummets to his ass until Richie lets out a loud, crackly, “Woo!” and then his eyes are snapping open, and everything is whipping past him in a blur. 

They’re riding down the hill, and fast, but it is not scary, not at all; not when Richie is right here in front of him, shouting and laughing like this is the most fun he’s had in years. And Eddie can’t help it as he throws his arms in the air, quite literally throwing caution to the wind, and lets out a big and loud yell; the only thing in his mind not the precautionary words of his mother, but the sound of Richie’s laughter as they barrel towards the bottom at full speed.

**Author's Note:**

> richie and eddie are best friends first, pining idiots second!
> 
> let me know what u think!! comments and kudos are always appreciated!! thanks 4 reading!! i lov u guys!! sorry im yelling!!
> 
> come bother me @michelllejones on tumblr dot com


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